


healing spirit

by pearwaldorf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Aid, M/M, Overprotective Crowley (Good Omens), Perfectly Competent Aziraphale, Very Little Hurt/Mostly Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-11-02 07:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20671862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearwaldorf/pseuds/pearwaldorf
Summary: “Who did this?” He thinks he sounds perfectly calm, but evidently Aziraphale does not, the way he looks up in concern.“Nothing you need to bother about, my dear.” Crowley thinks the angel is much more unruffled than he should be, given the circumstances.“It’s not a bother if you’re hurt!”





	healing spirit

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure it warranted a tag, but there are descriptions of (superficial) injuries that involve blood, as well as the treatment thereof. If that's something you're extremely sensitive to you might want to skip this one.

Aziraphale isn't there to answer the door when Crowley knocks. He is a bit later than usual, but it seems odd that the angel would have retired to the flat already.

Crowley snaps his fingers and the door unlocks. He lets himself in and makes sure the bolt catches, securing it again.

“Angel?” He calls. He wanders through the back part of the shop, dark and unoccupied. That's certainly strange. He goes upstairs to the flat and finds the door ajar, light spilling out into the hallway. He steps inside, closing the door behind him.

“Oh goodness, Crowley! You gave me a fright.” Aziraphale stands in the kitchen, trying to do something with a basin of water and a flannel.

Before he's quite aware of it, Crowley strides into the kitchen to take a closer look. Aziraphale’s knuckles are bloody and split, and Crowley has to take a moment to tamp down his rage that anybody would force Aziraphale to defend himself like this.

“Who did this?” He thinks he sounds perfectly calm, but evidently Aziraphale does not, the way he looks up in concern 1.

“Nothing you need to bother about, my dear.” Crowley thinks the angel is much more unruffled than he should be, given the circumstances.

“It’s not a bother if you’re hurt!” That was considerably less calm, he acknowledges.

"That’s very chivalrous, Crowley, but I am quite capable of taking care of myself.” He dips the flannel into the basin and soaks his cuff in the water. “Oh bless,” he huffs, irritated.

“Here, let me.” Crowley waves his hand and the cuff is dry again. He pulls Aziraphale’s hands towards him, removing the cufflinks and setting them aside. Crowley unbuttons one cuff, then the other, before rolling a sleeve up to Aziraphale’s forearms, just below the elbow.

“I regret that you must see me indecent and dishevelled like this, but I suppose it can’t be helped, under the circumstances.” He blushes, like he’s in nothing but his pants, rather than exposing less skin than a Victorian swimsuit; and Crowley thinks he might discorporate from exasperated fondness.

“It’s the twenty-first century, angel. Nobody will faint from the scandal of you exposing an ankle, or in this case, your arms.”

“Just my forearms, thank you,” he clarifies, but there’s a little quirk of his mouth that acknowledges he’s being joshed.

Crowley rolls up the other sleeve before submerging Aziraphale's hands into the water, disliking how much the blood tints it. A snap and it becomes clear and warm again. He soaks the flannel in the basin, dabbing at the remainder of the blood on Aziraphale’s hands. He's as gentle as he can be, but the skin is tender and broken and there's only so much he can do. Even knowing this he can't help but wince when Aziraphale hisses in pain.

"Sorry, sorry," Crowley says, suppressing the urge to kiss the injured appendages. (The desire never changes. The reason does.)

"Can't be helped. You have nothing to apologize for." Underneath the tightness of the pain there is affection, understanding 2.

He reaches for the first aid kit, pulling out a tube of antibiotic ointment. As he coats the broken skin with it, he fixes the angel with a Look. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"There's nothing to say, really. Some ruffians employed by property developers who want the land the shop stands on attempted to, ah, persuade me to sell." He doesn't sound scared; more annoyed than anything, as if this is no more inconvenient than dissuading a would-be customer from purchasing one of his first editions.

"And who might these developers be? I'd very much like to have a word with them."

Aziraphale scoffs, but puts out his other hand so Crowley can apply ointment on it. "Really, Crowley. I have it handled. This happens every few decades or so when somebody decides there's money to be made in revitalizing Soho, whatever that means."

“So this isn’t the first time.”

“Nor the second or third. As I said, I can take care of it.”

“But you shouldn’t have to.”

“You are a dear, to be so concerned. But I’m not some inept wilting flower.” Something flares in Crowley’s perception, the mostly unused bit that can see on non-mortal planes of existence. A manifestation of otherworldly strength, not specifically holy or infernal, just inhuman. It fades, leaving only a glint of something in Aziraphale’s expression, knowing and amused.

“I’m aware of that." Crowley pulls the gauze out and starts wrapping it around Aziraphale's hand so he doesn't have to think about the other things he can't properly articulate. How it's not about capability, but rather the principle of the matter; in other words, there are things that would consider harming Aziraphale, and thus cause deep existential offense to Crowley. His inability to eradicate those threats, or the impracticality of doing so. The intellectual awareness it’s not a particularly rational stance, but one he has nonetheless.

“It’s—you’re important to me, angel. If there’s something I can do to keep you safe, I will.”

Aziraphale is quiet as Crowley finishes bandaging his hand. They’ve never really talked about the bookshop, or the bar; also known as the worst few hours in Crowley’s considerably long life 3. Maybe in a decade or so, he’ll be able to discuss it when he’s properly drunk. But for the time being, he’s happy to let Aziraphale make inferences about his silence on the issue 4.

“My darling, you can’t keep me wrapped in cotton wool. It's not fair to either of us, living as if disaster is just round the corner." He catches Crowley's eye, smiling a little. "I think I've had enough of that for several lifetimes."

"Yeah." The word comes out rough, and he swallows. Something in Crowley's chest squishes at another reminder Aziraphale really is all in now, on their side.

"We're a team, are we not?" He asks softly. "We help each other up when we stumble, protect the other when they're weak.” Aziraphale puts out his other hand so Crowley can wrap it. “And apparently patch the other up when fisticuffs become necessary."

Crowley huffs, but indulgently. "I'll do it whenever you need, but I'd really prefer to face a situation like this with you."

"And when it's necessary, I would be honoured to have you by my side."

He finishes up with Aziraphale’s other hand, tying it off in a little bow, and begins the process of cleaning up.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Aziraphale asks.

Crowley stops packing up the first aid kit. "Am I?"

Aziraphale makes a sad little moue. He doesn't bat his eyelashes, but Crowley is fairly sure he considered it. "You have to kiss it to make it better. I think that's how it works."

He allows himself to be baited. "If I must."

He bends over Aziraphale's hand, bringing it up to his mouth. Crowley brushes lips against Aziraphale's fingers before turning his hand over, kissing the palm and then the tender skin at the wrist. He takes Aziraphale's other hand into his own, repeating the process. His tongue pokes out to flicker at the pulse, making Aziraphale inhale sharply.

“If there are other hurts that need attention, you should probably tell me now. House calls take a lot of effort, you know.”

“Well, I suppose you’ll need to take a look at them first, and I can hardly lay down in the kitchen.” Aziraphale takes his hand, mindful of his dressings. “I think you might need to do a rather thorough examination. No telling what other injuries I might have suffered.”

Crowley laughs and allows himself to be led to the bedroom. “I think I’ll be able to take care of whatever ails you, angel. Just tell me where it hurts.”

* * *

1 Not for himself, of course, but the threat of retribution against the responsible parties. He is an angel; Crowley supposes that compassion for all living beings includes those that have done him wrong as well. ↩

2 Also forgiveness, if that’s something he could understand, which he doesn’t, being a demon and all. ↩

3 His Fall is definitely in second place now, because he hadn’t known Aziraphale then. ↩

4 The advantage of knowing a being for as long as they have is sometimes you don’t need to speak to communicate. The flip side of that is the other person knows exactly how to get under your skin, knowledge they’ve both used on occasion throughout the millennia. ↩

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to How to Fight Write for information on [knuckle injuries](https://howtofightwrite.tumblr.com/post/102582465109/how-hard-of-a-punch-would-it-take-to-split).
> 
> Since people kept asking, I made [a guide to inserting footnotes with a WYSYWIG editor](https://pearwaldorf.tumblr.com/post/187101781697/hello-friends-ive-gotten-a-number-of-comments-on). Please share and reblog if you found it useful.


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